Chapter 11 #2
Alec’s throat chose that moment to wedge a frog in his vocal cords. He was saved, thankfully, when a tall bald man with bits of what looked like icing dappling his mustache joined them and swept Marisa into a hug. “Hi, honey bun. Happy birthday.”
“Hi, Dad. Thanks. This is Alec, by the way.”
“Alec, nice to meet you. Hank.”
“Likewise, sir. And Happy Hanukkah.”
“Oh, damn.” Marisa’s dad swiped a thumb across his mustache to remove the offending evidence of festivities enjoyed too early. “May have gotten into the cupcake cake a bit too early.” Then he shielded his mouth and whispered to Marisa, “Don’t tell your mother.”
Marisa gave him a lopsided smile as she looked over his shoulder. “Too late.”
“Double damn.” The man had the good humor to look appropriately chagrined as he turned to his wife. “Honey, now that Marisa’s here, why don’t we sing ‘Happy birthday’ first, then light the candles?”
The corner of Alec’s mouth quirked up in appreciative fondness. He sure as hell knew that move. Cal had practically perfected the bloody thing with their parents when he and his brother were teenagers.
Nice diversion tactic. Well played, sir. Well played.
Bea’s eyes narrowed into all-knowing slits, the kind of expression that said, I know what you did, but what I’m going to do to you later will be so much worse.
Alec instinctively dropped his fists over his crotch on the elder man’s behalf.
“Fine. Hank, call everyone else into the living room, please.”
While he and Marisa brought up the rear of the processional leaving the kitchen, Alec took the opportunity to steal a quiet word. “Everything all right so far?”
She nodded tightly but still accepted the offer of his folded arm, curling her delicate hands around his bicep. “Sure. Not looking forward to enduring a happy birthday montage usually reserved for little kid parties, but I can deal.”
“Easy now,” he chided. “Some of my favorite people are former little kids. It may not have occurred to you, but I, myself, was once a little kid. Fucking loved birthday parties. Always stole Cal’s portion of cake when he wasn’t looking.
Left him the icing, though. Too sweet.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Marisa’s harsh chuckle forced the tension from her shoulders, lightening not only her grip on his arm but the grim cast that had prevented her smile from surfacing all evening. It was out now with all its former splendor, and he mentally added one more check mark to his win column.
“You’re too much.” She shook her head.
“Nah. I’m just right, I wager, kind of like the way you were fiddling with my heating vents in the car earlier to position them how you liked. I may need a bit of guidance and direction from you, but I always get to where I need to go.”
Marisa drew them to a stop once they entered the living room, where a crowd of people had begun to gather around a grand piano. “Just remember you said that,” she whispered, then tightened her hold on him and sidled up to her parents.
For the second time that night, Alec’s expectations, a bit muddled though they were, evacuated from the scene posthaste. In their place stood a grand display of what could only be described as a true Festival of Lights.
By that, he meant every single light. All at once. Including things he hadn’t thought should light up in the first place. Did those couch cushions really have light-up letters that said Relax! It’s Hanukkah. Have another doughnut?
A grand chandelier hung from the center of the room just above the piano. On top of the resplendent instrument stood a large silver menorah with glass cups filled with oil and candle wicks, in addition to various gifts.
The feature presentation, most notably, but definitely not the only one.
All around the room’s perimeter were several other menorahs, some holding candles, some electric, but all with different shapes and flows. They were arranged in an elegant, tapered processional that would surely chase away any shadow that had the gall to try and lurk around.
Those were already lit, however, along with all the decorative votives dancing beneath the hanging glittery lanterns that cast light throughout the rooms like disco balls, bouncing off silver candleholders and guests’ crystal wineglasses.
The only menorah that wasn’t lit was the main one on the piano, which made sense.
There had to be at least a dozen menorahs scattered throughout the space.
If Marisa’s family had to light each one all at the same time, they’d never get to the food before it got cold.
And speaking of food, rich and savory aromas perked up Alec’s stomach and yanked his attention toward the source, which was no easy feat given the visual spectacle.
Lined up around the adjacent dining room were buffet-style serving dishes and platters, all adorned with neat little note cards declaring their offerings and heaped high with a whole lot of golden, brown, and delicious.
Alec had to suck back the puddle of saliva that had formed in his mouth as he squinted, damn near desperate to read each little tented card from where he stood.
There were crisp potato pancakes in russet, sweet potato, and mixed veggie varieties, glistening folds of smoked salmon adorned with red onions and capers, bagels for days, cream cheese and applesauce tubs the size of kiddie pools, sugar-dusted doughnuts, and those were just the things he recognized as symbols of the holiday.
All this to say nothing of the cheesy stuffed shells, fried mac and cheese balls served in shot glasses with toothpicks, and a lone platter of what he figured were the obligatory roasted vegetables offered up to the gods of fiber and good colon health.
Likewise, the cupcake cake arranged in the shape of a menorah, with a few notable cupcakes missing, sat off to the side, its cheerful Happy birthday, Marisa!
capping off the buffet like a prize at the end of the finish line.
Between the living room and dining room, there wasn’t a surface or ceiling that hadn’t reached its limit in terms of festive abundance.
It was absolutely cornea-singeing.
But it was also bloody lovely.
It was a different kind of festive than he’d ever experienced, and strangely enough, it reminded him of a phrase he’d been taught by a former Italian teammate he’d played with for a handful of seasons.
Abbondanza. Or the Italian concept of too-muchness, as Alec understood it.
The idea of a pleasant fullness that magnified one’s joy because of its excess, not despite it.
Alec bit back a laugh and covered his mouth with his fist, pleasantly surprised at just how much he enjoyed this fake date.
Because it was excessive, every bit of it. But it was also joy. Excessive, unapologetic, and insanely gaudy joy.
He leaned close to Marisa’s ear, intending to tell her as much, when an elegant woman who seemed to be around Marisa’s parents’ age separated from a group surrounding the large menorah at the piano and came to greet them. “Marisa, happy birthday, my love.”
“Hi, Aunt Gail. Thanks. Nice spread you got this year.”
“Oh, thank you. The party planner worked miracles with the decorations,” she said with air kisses on each side of Marisa’s cheeks. “The caterer, not so much. I had a bit of trouble with the order, but in the end, they came around. It all worked out.”
Bea started passing out skullcaps—yarmulkes, he’d learned—to those who wanted one, then coughed into her wineglass.
“Because you threatened to contact the Better Business Bureau over false advertising when you ordered off the printed catering menu you still had in your kitchen drawer, instead of the updated one on their website.”
“Oh, Beatrice,” Gail said, rolling her eyes, “It really shouldn’t have made a difference.”
“It’s not that we’re not all grateful for the spread, dear, but the caterer is allowed to change the menu.
It’s not their fault you don’t know how the Internet works, nor should it be my burden to talk the poor employee off the ledge when you asked me to call to see whether they could add cinnamon raisin and walnut cream cheese to the order thirty minutes before it was supposed to be delivered.
You know that’s not on the menu anymore.
Hasn’t been for five years. It takes time to soak all those raisins.
You can’t just add them to the cream cheese all hard and shriveled.
” Then she took a deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips, attempting to adopt a calm-down technique Alec had seen far too many women do.
He always wondered whether it really worked.
Hank leaned forward, lifted the mostly drained wineglass out of Bea’s hand, and whispered next to her, “Remember, kindness,” but Marisa’s mother just shrugged him off in favor of tossing another chocolate coin into her mouth.
Alec made a mental note that the calm-down technique might have a far higher chance of success if chocolate were involved.
Unfortunately, it did little to calm down Marisa’s aunt.
Gail’s eyes turned into icy slits, and strangely, Alec relaxed a bit more, comforted to know that Marisa’s family holidays could be just as noxious as his own. Some things were universal, he supposed.
Marisa fiddled with her fingernail. “Can we just light the candles, or sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ or do whatever it is we need to in order to get to the food? I promised Alec a good meal, not dinner and a show.”
It was under the weighted and, thanks to Marisa’s comment, spotlit stare of her entire family and loved ones that the two of them realized their huge mistake.
A big bloody albatross of their fake dating lie.
They’d yet to come up with a story of how they met.
Her Aunt Gail, who had been about to strike a match to light the first candle, instead put the matches down. “Who’s your guest, Marisa?”
“Uh, um. Alec.”
“Alec Elms,” he offered, awkwardly waving his hand, as if that would be explanation enough. It most definitely wasn’t.
“He’s my, uh, my . . .”
“Boyfriend,” he said, smiling, plunking down that word like a man betting it all on red because he had an in with the dealer.
But to his abject horror, his smile, the smile, didn’t so much as even soften the shock on her family’s features.
The matches hit the floor, their task long forgotten, as Marisa and Alec just stood there, bracing themselves against the chorus of questions fired their way.